Silhouettes
by Dreams2Paper11
Summary: Dick Grayson is living in Gotham City with Bruce Wayne. Everyone tells him that he lost his memory because of an accident in Jump, but he doesn't know what that accident was. Confused and alone, he just might be clay in the hands of a one-eyed mastermind criminal... A twist on the cliche amnesia plot. Includes Batman, the Justice League, and Slade. Pairings undecided.
1. Chapter 1

**So, a while back I started a story called "Shadows" but I was reading it over, and I realized that my writing quality for it was rushed, slapdash, and not very good. I feel as if I've improved, and I wanted to sort of take a new spin on the idea I was going with. Yes, this will involve amnesia. Yes, it HEAVILY involves Slade. (Gosh he's awesome.) Yes it will involve Batman, right from the start. **

**Most of you have probably read cliche amnesia fics before, but I'm adding a major twist. You see, most start off with the Titans (Guilty as charged) but I wanted to do something different this time.**

**Read and review. :)**

******0000000000**

**Prologue**

Somebody is screaming.

He, because it sounds masculine, maybe mid-to-late teens, is in agonizing pain, that much I know. The horrible sound, climbing pitches as it increases in volume, pierces my eardrums like knives, and I clap my hands over my ears to muffle the endless noise by digging my fingers into my ear canals in a futile attempt to block them. It doesn't work, however, because I can still hear it. The awful sound passes easily around my jammed fingers, bouncing around my skull with stunning force. I want to hunker down in a ball, or run away, or tell whoever is making that frightening noise to shut up, but I can't, because just merely listening to the sound makes me cringe in pain.

As I begin to sort of adjust to the horrifying noise, I become aware that my vocal cords are vibrating crazily, and my mouth is gaping, and my eyes are squeezed shut so tightly that I see spots of light pulsing on the backs of my eyelids. Then I realize that the terrible, inhuman cry of unspeakable torture is emanating from _me_. I think that this startling revelation shocks me into silence because the awful scream chokes, falls silent. My throat aches from the tenuous strain of producing that primal wail of fear and pain. My crazy, desperate breaths fill the sudden silence.

Somebody whispers "Thank God" in a heartbroken, helpless kind of voice.

Then I feel the explanation for that sound again. It's an agony so indescribable, words won't do it justice, but I'll try anyway. It's like like somebody is pounding my head over and over with a sledgehammer while twisting knives in my eye sockets and simultaneously scratching long nails on a chalkboard.

I suck in a breath and start screaming again.

**Chapter 1**

This room is very different from the one I had at the hospital.

This one is open and impeccably clean, free of any obstructing clutter. There are no piles of things, not a trace of dust on any surface. The floor is constructed of dark, interlacing wooden boards. They are fitted so neatly together, like puzzle pieces, with barely a hairline of space between each strip.

When I first walked through the entrance, the primary feature of the room that popped out was the king-sized bed placed in the center. The foot of the magnificent piece of furniture is closest to the door, and the headboard (its glossy surface etched with swirly designs and intricate patterns) is pushed against the wall. The walls themselves are dark blue, with a hidden sheen that shines slightly when sunlight brushes across it. Handsome dressers and drawers are pushed against the room's perimeter. A good-sized rectangular mirror is placed on top of the one to the left of the bed.

In the corner, there is a paneled wooden door with a shiny silver handle. It leads to a bathroom so large it's like another bedroom. I can lay down in the bathtub and stretch out my limbs as far as I can, and I'll come within, say, two or three feet of the tub's walls. Numerous taps like gleaming sentries, their sleek heads bowed in waiting, are fixed all around its perimeter, spaced evenly apart.

I gingerly lay back on the thick, cushy mattress, sighing in appreciation as the weight of my body presses itself into the bed. I clasp my hands and rest the back of my head on my entwined palms, staring at the stucco ceiling.

The elderly man, Alfred, found me earlier in the mansion's enormous library and informed me that supper would be in an hour's time. I had wanted to keep reading, but he directed an appraising eye at my wrinkled plaid shirt and old blue jeans. I got the message clearly enough: go to your room and change into something suitable for dinner.

Psh.

This isn't even my room. They say it is, but I inwardly disagree. This is not my room. This is Richard Grayson's room. They say I am Richard Grayson, but I disagree with that too.

I don't really know who I am.

At least, not anymore.

I turn my head to the left slightly, wincing a bit as the white bandage over my grievous head wound catches on a loose string on the pillow. Loose, hazy thoughts float around my mind.

Did Richard Grayson like to flop on his bed like this? Did he stay up late reading, or playing Xbox (there's one stored and neatly put away in the bottom drawer) or did he just climb into bed and sleep?

That seems a bit boring to me, so I spend the rest of my free time messing around, formulating different theories in my head about Richard Grayson, the teenage boy I supposedly am.

My ears, always cognizant, pick up the sound of leather shoes tapping crisply along the corridor outside my door, and I partially sit up, balancing on my elbows. I'm not sure, but it seems to me like I have an acute sense of hearing. For some reason, the slightest noise wakes me up when I'm asleep and sends me bolting upright. I must have been one paranoid guy before the accident.

Three crisp knocks on the door.

Alfred.

"Dinnertime, Master Richard," he calls through the door's crack, and I swing my legs over the bed, hurrying over to the large dresser and yanking the drawers open.

"Okay, I'll be down in a few minutes."

The sound of footfalls decrescendo as the old butler leaves. I quickly throw on a freshly pressed blue plaid shirt and some unwrinkled dark blue jeans. When I glance up at the large mirror hung on the wall, my hand instinctually goes up and smoothes back my raven-black hair, holding it in spikes. I study the image for a few seconds, then sigh and let my hair drift back into place. It's the strangest sensation to look into a mirror and not recognize the reflection. My eyes are a deep, azure blue, framed by black eyelashes. My nose is straight and turns up the tiniest bit at the tip. My lips are thin and slightly pale. They always press together into a sort of determined scowl. When I attempt to smile, it looks weak and out of place. My eyebrows are black and not overly thick or thin, and my skin looks like it had once been tan but was now pale and bloodless. I grip the edges of the dresser with white knuckles, beginning to panic again. I don't know this face. I don't know this house, or these people, or-

I find myself chanting the facts over and over again in my head.

_My name is Richard Grayson. _

_(Supposedly.)_

_I am sixteen years old. _

_(Supposedly.)_

_I was at a boarding school for a few years in Jump City where I bumped my head, thus causing my amnesia. _

_(Supposedly.)_

_My parents fell to their deaths while performing on the trapeze when I was a kid. I am now Bruce Wayne's ward._

That last sentence doesn't sit right with me for some reason, and I hastily revise it in my head.

_I am the ward of Bruce Wayne. _

I do not like the notion of being owned, for some alien reason.

Feeling slightly calmer, I finish mussing up my hair in a sort of laidback, windswept style and go down to dinner. The fancy dining hall is empty. I roll my eyes, blowing a wisp of black hair out of my face in frustration. Nothing out of place here.

"Master Dick!"

I turn, watching as Alfred wheels in a cart. Tantalizing smells seep out from the shiny insulated platters, and my mouth waters in anticipation. He brings the trolley to a stop beside my chair and carefully sets the servings of food in front of me, lifting the dome covers with a flourish.

"It is my sincerest regret to inform you that Master Bruce-"

"-will not be here," I finish, with a small sour note in my tone. "Yeah. Thought so."

Alfred sends me a pitying look of sympathy, and I turn away, looking down at my clenched hands in my lap. I don't want pity. I want answers.

Feigning indifference, I pick up my knife and fork and begin to slice the skillet steaks cooked to perfection. Alfred scrapes a healthy serving of roasted and salted potatoes onto my plate, next to my serving of greens. He shakes the serving spoon at me threateningly.

"I better not see a speck of food on this plate when I get back, young man," He says playfully, wheeling the cart away. "I knew you weren't eating enough in Jump, you're skinny as a stick…" I smile half-heartedly at his sarcastic remarks, popping a chunk of meat in my mouth. At least _somebody_ cares about me around here.

"So, is Mr. Wayne getting back late again, or is he actually going to be here before the sun sets," I call out around a mouthful of food, waving my fork in the air. Alfred sighs wearily, looking sad again, and I bite my tongue, regretting having ever asked the question.

"I'm sorry Master Dick, truly, I am." He pushes through the door and leaves.

I watch him through narrowed eyes. "Thanks for answering my question…"

I finish the rest of the meal in silence, then take my dishes to the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher. Alfred is gone, probably somewhere in this humongous place dusting something. I slide down the banister of the great entry staircase, landing easily on my feet and jogging briskly for the door. I open the door and shut it quietly behind me, muting the click. Somehow, I don't think Alfred would approve of me wandering the grounds. But anywhere is better than this huge empty mansion, with its silent walls and lonely rooms.

The east garden is my favorite place to be. Flowering bushes line the winding stone pathways, partially concealing the occasional cherubic stone figurines. I trot down the trail, following it until I reach a sharp right twist, whereupon I slip off into the flowery undergrowth, pushing through until I stumble into a small circular clearing. A huge oak, growing diagonally out of the ground until it reaches a point where it gracefully curves back, is planted in the center of the little clearing. It's absolutely massive, and its bark is knobby and etched with worn scratches, chips, and whorls. A low, marble bench is placed at the foot of the thick trunk. I leap onto the stone bench and grab suitable handholds in the old bark, lifting myself up with ease into the old tree.

Then I focus all of my energy into simply climbing.

Reach, grab, pull, reach, grab, pull.

The redundant pattern soothes my distressed mind and I gradually relax, swinging from branch to branch with more flair than necessary. I'm very flexible. Mr. Wa Bruce tells me that I was an accomplished aerialist before my parents died. Then he took me in as his ward (I still don't really get why I wasn't adopted. Did he offer, and I refuse? Did I want it, but he wasn't comfortable with it? Nobody seems to want to talk to me about any of this.)

Eventually, the thick solid branches began to taper, thinning until I had to hold onto a bunch of them in order to keep climbing. My chest still rises and falls steadily. I don't even feel tired. One of the tree limbs, more like slender twigs now, unexpectedly snaps out from underneath me and I begin to fall, and my heart skips a beat in my chest, but I instinctually grasp a nearby branch and force my body to flip around it, settling in a handstand. I gently ease my legs down, securely placing my feet on the bough.

Then I sigh, smile, and lean my back against the trunk. I think something's wrong with me, but I don't care. Is it normal for people to like dangerous situations? Average people would be clinging tightly to the thickest nearby branch after such a near miss like that, but I relish in the adrenalin surging through my veins, and the thrill bringing my body to life.

I open my eyes and roll my head to the right, watching the sun begin to set behind the mansion. Long streaks and splashes of bright orange and yellow spill around the tall, imposing building, making the edges of the house glow gold. A light chill begins to seep through my blue hoodie, and I shiver, pulling the fabric closer to my body and digging my hands deeply into the baggy front pocket.

It's late summer. In the garden, the trees' leaves are beginning to curl around the edges. Splotches of brown, red, and yellow are spotting some of the early ones. When I inhale, the fresh scent of earth and the cool dusk air invade my nostrils.

This is the nice part of Gotham, according to Mr. Wayne. I wouldn't really know. I've only been in this city for, like, one week. He says everywhere else, the smog is so thick it blots out the sky and sun. I think I would hate that. I like having the wide-open sky above me. Sometimes, when I'm running along the paths in the garden just for the heck of it, I look up at the sky and pretend that I'll run so fast that my feet will lift right off the ground and I'll float up and up and never have to deal with this stupid amnesia stuff again. I'd run so fast that I'd fly.

A sleek black limo pulls into the long driveway, rolling down the road with the easy grace of one who has traversed the slightly winding pavement many times before. I squint, watching as it pulls into the separate garage for all Mr. Wayne's cars.

Well, guess he's back now.

I close my fingers in a fist.

I guess he's back just to quickly grab a bite to eat and then head out again.

I sigh and roll my eyes, looking away and shaking my head. Whatever. He can do as he pleases. Like I care. He says we know each other very well, but I don't believe him. How could things be so awkward and forced now if we really knew each other? During one of my reflection periods, I'd wondered a couple things. Like, for instance, maybe we had a severe argument. Maybe that's why he barely looks at me.

Secondly, I seem to have a rare case of amnesia. Shouldn't I be taking therapy, or something, to attempt to retrieve my memory? Instead of just coming "home" from Jump and living out the rest of my days in a place I don't remember and don't understand?

Thirdly, the entire way that I lost my memory seems spurious to me. Everyone I've asked says that I hit my head, but that's it. How did I hit it? Why? What caused me to become injured in the first place? Was anyone present at the time?

My head throbs and I rub it distractedly, exhaling loudly. Too many questions, too little answers. I wish I could just ditch Gotham and travel to Jump and find out what really happened myself, but something tells me that I wouldn't make it very far.

A sixth sense tells me that Alfred and Mr. Wayne are probably looking for me right now. If I return to the mansion right now, Mr. Wayne will give his 'disappointed' look, and shake his head, and turn away, and Alfred will clear his throat uncomfortably.

Heh. Might as well save them the trouble and keep out of their way.

Eventually, night falls over Gotham City and the bugs in the garden go wild. The background noises of crickets and other nighttime insects create a nice backdrop for my imagination, and I curl up tighter on the branch, wondering if I should just sleep here. I really don't feel like going back to that lonely, silent house.

Something flares in my peripheral vision. I sit up and peer around the tree's trunk, my eyes widening. The bat-signal, glaringly obvious, is shown on the night sky, the polluted clouds acting like a projection screen.

Awestruck, I can only stare at that intimidating black symbol, imagining Gotham's greatest asset leaping into the night, fighting back the tide of crime. I smile, settling back in my perch..

Who knows, maybe one day I'll meet him.

Maybe he has some answers about me.

**0000000000**

**I'm going to be deleting Shadows soon, so I hope those of you that read that like this idea better. **

**I know that many of you will have questions, but rest assured: yes the Titans WILL be involved in this. Yes Slade will be in it too. Yes, there will be Batman and the Justice League. **

**R&R!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow! Thanks to all of you for such an enthusiastic response! I know the first chapter was a little dry, since it was mainly an introduction, but you all have stunned me with your kindness. Special thanks to the reviewers: _Guest, Aguna, hunter of artemis 73, When Dreams Become Reality, Life is like a potato, _and_ Sadie Aurora Night._**

Chapter 2

**__-:;(-);:-__**

Slade slowly swirled the water in his glass, watching the ice cubes spin in the eddy.

He was bored.

The reason for his laxness was surrounding him. Villains of every sort, experience, and renown had gathered for one of the annual criminal conferences. This year, it took place in Jump, and since Slade was the most prominent villain of that area, his presence was expected. He suppressed a sigh, rubbing the tips of his gloved fingers together, feeling the itch to get up and leave and return to his work.

He could not stop the amused smirk that slid across his hidden visage. _And what work I have,_ he thought to himself. That single internal remark knocked him onto a whole new train of thought and he began strategizing, coming up with different approaches that would work the best for this… unique situation…

"Attention, ladies and gentlemen," The Penguin called out, primly chinking his silver spoon against the flute of his champagne glass. A ripple of low laughter and amused snorts spread through the many beings seated at various tables at the formal, proper words of address. Penguin, though, kept his cool and simply lifted a haughty eyebrow at their reaction. The sounds evanesced quickly and he smiled again, revealing sharp teeth.

"May I welcome each and every one of you to the 2012 Annual!"

Semi-polite applause.

"Many thanks to this year's benefactors: Brother Blood," the said person climbed fluidly to his feet and gave a short nod of his head, his eyes narrowed and proud. A low cheer swept through the wide room. An arrogant smirk curled the man's lips and he gave a deep bow, flinging one hand out with dramatic flair. Penguin continued after Blood had seated himself, "and last but… eh… certainly not least," Penguin gave a quiet, nervous laugh, and Slade felt the threads of impatience wrap around him.

"Deathstroke the Terminator! Or, as he goes by now, Slade."

Instant quiet.

Conscious of the fact that every eye was now riveted upon him, Slade lifted his head high, sliding gracefully to his intimidating height. He slowly did a 180, allowing his sole, dark eye to linger over every table. Each and every villain worked to suppress a shudder as the heavy, imperious stare passed over his or her person.

Slade did not bow his head. It was not his style.

He sat down silently and Penguin took it as his cue to continue.

"We ask that you refrain from petty squabbles with one another as we have much important information to discuss." The short, rotund little man turned to Lex Luthor and nodded. The figurehead of crime for Metropolis took the stage, clicking on his little mike clipped to the lapels of his expensive suit.

"Well, there is not much to report for my city, I'm afraid," the man began, his slick tongue capturing everyone's utter attention, "although I will freely say that…"

Slade, bored again, tuned the bald man out and observed the crowd instead. His sharp eye picked out many of Jump's criminals: Adonis, Atlas, Brain, Control Freak, Doctor Light, H.I.V.E. Five, Johnny Rancid, Killer Moth and his obnoxious daughter, Mad Mod, Mumbo, Professor Chang, and Red X. They occupied the western corner of the room, the older representatives eyeing the others in the room, silently daring any of the non-Jump villains to intrude upon their staked out territory. The Brain and his hulking ape companion took up one of the tables by themselves. Only a person wishing to get crushed by the primate's massive fists would venture to sit at that spot. Unfortunately, not all of the criminals were acting their age. On the table to their right, Kitten was batting her eyelashes flirtatiously at Red X, who seemed mildly creeped out. Johnny Rancid was flicking rolled up bits of his napkin at Control Freak and acting innocent whenever the overweight, greasy-haired ginger turned in his chair.

Slade suppressed a sigh.

"… Titans… Robin…"

Now that caught his attention. His head snapped to the side, his interest wholly caught. Brother Blood had risen to give his report of the city's crime. Now, the leanly muscled man paced slowly in front of the long, rectangular table at which most of the higher-up villains sat, including Slade himself.

"Not as if I care what happens to the little _brat_," the man spat out venomously. He took a breath to recollect himself and continued. "But what has become of the young Titan leader? My sources reveal that he has been missing for nearly two weeks now, and-"

A great clamor drowned out the rest of his words as nearly every person in the cavernous room leaped to his or her feet, cheering, screaming condescending words against the young leader, and generally just making an uproar. Jump's criminals seemed to especially revel in Blood's confirmation of the missing teen.

"Quiet! Quiet, _please!" _

Slade's fingers twitched at the volume resonating in the chamber.

Eventually, the cries and yells faded and the criminals took their seats. Blood seethed, looking around him angrily.

"As I was saying… I believe that now is the time to strike against the young heroes. Without their precious leader, they are crippled. I come here tonight proposing an alliance, a unity through which-"

Again the man was interrupted, this time by Lex Luthor.

"My apologies, Brother Blood, at the interruption, but we all have our own agendas to cater to. You are not even sure if Robin is really missing. The Titans are not my enemies, and I have enough of those, thank you. I have no intention of bringing the wrath of the Justice League down upon me by obliterating these… _mosquitoes_…" The bald man spoke clearly, with ringing, condescending authority, involving the use of his hands in small gestures to accentuate his speech.

"Oi! What you lot call mosquitoes, we call 'cheeky little twerps who somehow manage ta ruin all o'our hard work!'" Mad Mod bravely ventured, flinging himself rather sprightly to his feet.

"Your incompetence at villainy is not my concern," Luthor dismissed coldly, inhaling to continue when-

"You insult us?" Professor Chang cried out in protest. "And yet you wonder why my supplies of xenothium to your company have been weaned! My shipments haven't been able to travel due to the Titans constant interference!"

As the fight culminated, Slade reposed in his chair, watching with disdain as even composed villains went to pieces over such a small squabble. When suddenly, the fight unexpectedly reversed in a new direction.

"What I'd like to know is who disposed of the bird in the first place!" Doctor Light called, his voice somehow cutting through the din. "'Cause I'd like to have a chat with him! Robin is a Jump City hero, therefore _he, is, __**ours**_ to kill!"

"You forget," Penguin sneered in response, "that he was the Bat's brat long before he came to Jump. His roots are in Gotham, and by the hand of a Gotham villain shall his end befall him."

Slade laced his fingers together and watched, listening to his heartbeat speed up in a flare of contained anger.

Robin was _his_.

The bitter altercation quickly evolved into a shouting match of who had done the most against the Boy Wonder, and therefore why he/she deserved to be the one to finally murder the brat. Eventually, Slade could bear it no more. He leaped to his feet, raising his deep smooth voice in a commanding shout, _"ENOUGH!"_

Jaws hung open in shock as heads swiveled to face the masked mercenary, the foreboding figure that was usually silent at these types of meetings. To his right, Slade heard Lex Luthor give a small sigh of relief as the noise abided and ringing silence prevailed.

"As Jump City's most prominent criminal," his eye slid over to the Jump natives, daring any of them to object to his brazen, blatant statement. Wisely, none of them did. "I have claimed Robin as my own. **No one else will touch a single hair on his head**!" He unexpectedly smashed his fists against the tabletop hard, and the resulting bang caused half of the room to startle.

Absolute, stunned quiet as some of the villains present wondered why on earth the world's most dangerous mercenary would ever stoop to take an interest in a mere child. The Jump City criminals, however, knew, or had at least heard the rumors. Slade took the brief reprieve to rein in his mounting anger, taking silent, calming breaths.

"Do you know where he is, then? And what happened to him? Are you planning on killing him?" Brother Blood asked, trying and failing to suppress the curious tone to his words. Slade carefully constructed his response.

"Yes, I know what happened to the boy, and where he is."

A dark smirk tugged at his lips as he thought of an amnesiac teen holed up safely in the recesses of Gotham.

"And no, I don't plan on killing him."

Many mouths opened to protest, but closed again when Slade's eye flicked over them.

"Then, if you don't mind my asking, if you don't plan on killing the boy, what vendetta has inspired you to such measures?" Lex asked smoothly, his low voice slicing the thick, unwavering silence.

Slade's posture tightened slightly at the bold intrusion of his privacy.

"That is for me to know, not you. Rest assured, however," he said, looking directly at the group of Jump criminals, "that you will know in due time." A grim chuckle colored his usually monotonic tone. "It will be quite a shock to all of you, I believe."

Then Slade sat down, having said his portion and satisfied with the result. Uneasy whispers filled the room as more than one cautious, unsure glance was thrown his way. Seizing the chance, Penguin picked up his knife and rapped it sharply against the table three times, gaining everyone's attention.

"This meeting is adjourned," he said coolly, already slipping on his overcoat. "Until next time, my fellow compatriots." People rose from their seats, preparing to leave the rented building. Guards, heavily tipped to keep their mouths shut (and threatened, also) smartly threw open the doors and bowed to each person as they passed.

Slade lingered no longer than necessary to say his short, clipped goodbyes and exited, climbing into the passenger seat of the sleek black vehicle parked just outside the building. As he relaxed into the cushions and folded his arms across his chest, his butler and life-time friend Wintergreen put the idle car into motion, expertly driving out of the deserted parking lot.

Slade briefly closed his eye, his mind dwelling on the meeting. His point had been made clear: Robin was his, and he would kill any villain who dared to object.

He would so enjoy seeing his bird again in black and orange.


End file.
